I have a letter to share tonight from your sister. She is Dadda's daughter from his first marriage, but a daughter and sister we have always felt as part of our heart and soul from the start. We love her tremendously and she loves and misses you. As she prepares to leave for college in the fall, life has hit her squarely between the eyes. I post this tonight, for her - for you.
To the moon and back, sweet 'Nut.
- Momma
Peanut, this morning I woke early to drive down to Columbia, Missouri to register for my classes at Stephens College in the fall. Everyone I met today was great and they wanted to know all about your only sister. I have six brothers! WOWWWW! How in the world did I manage that? What are the names and ages of all of them? I got stuck on your age because do I say, “Oh Connor is two’, or do I tell them, ‘he’s 16 and a half months old.” My brain froze on this question and I stuck with 16.5 months, because that’s what you are in my mind. Forever 16.5 months old. When I told one mother in specific about you, Peanut, she wanted to know what exciting things you were learning to do at your age. This one got me. Why in the world did she ask about you in specific?
Peanut, this morning I woke early to drive down to Columbia, Missouri to register for my classes at Stephens College in the fall. Everyone I met today was great and they wanted to know all about your only sister. I have six brothers! WOWWWW! How in the world did I manage that? What are the names and ages of all of them? I got stuck on your age because do I say, “Oh Connor is two’, or do I tell them, ‘he’s 16 and a half months old.” My brain froze on this question and I stuck with 16.5 months, because that’s what you are in my mind. Forever 16.5 months old. When I told one mother in specific about you, Peanut, she wanted to know what exciting things you were learning to do at your age. This one got me. Why in the world did she ask about you in specific?
I had every urge to excuse myself to the bathroom, to cry in a stall by myself. But what good would that do? So I told her your story. It was strange, she had actually heard about you. In fact, she worked at the hospital where we spent that dreadful morning after your death. I told her all about your fear of walking and how you finally conquered it just weeks before your death. She let the story fall away, and changed the subject. But it stuck with me. I tried changing my mood the rest of the day but I couldn’t get you off my mind.
Just a few hours later, on the rainy drive back home I still had you on my brain. Just when I started thinking of other things, my iPod skipped to “Talking to the Moon” by Bruno Mars. Peanut, I’m sure you have heard me belt this out to you millions of times when I’m missing you. The song starts with,
“I know you're somewhere out there, Somewhere far away, I want you back, I want you back.”
“I know you're somewhere out there, Somewhere far away, I want you back, I want you back.”
I lost it Connor. I pulled off at the next exit, parked my car at an abandoned gas station and listened to the song four of five times. I replayed it while I was crying, singing the beautiful but mournful lyrics to you. I missed you so much. I wanted so bad to be able to call you and tell you all about my visit, which dorm I picked and which classes I signed up for. I know being almost three you would have listened, not understanding any of it, but giggling at the stories of the crazy people I met today.
After my crying binge, I felt shame for breaking down like I did. I’m the biggest advocate for turning your pain into a positive feeling. For not regretting the things one misses, but reminiscing on the good times they got to share with their loved one.
Peanut, I need you to know that I cherish every moment I got to spend with you and I will NEVER, for as long as a live, forget one second of it. I love you Peanut. I can’t wait to see you again, all grown up. I love you wider than my arms can spread and my legs can stretch. Until we meet again, be listening tonight, when I’m talking to the moon, and you, sweet boy.
Em.
Em.
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